


Good Cheer

by scifichick774



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifichick774/pseuds/scifichick774
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were all going to die from exposure because some Ministry lack-wit hadn't been doing his job. <i>Brilliant.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Cheer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters and the world they live in belong to JKR, not to me. I'm making no money from writing them.

The season to be in good cheer, his arse. People were lucky he was able to feign _civility_ when it was so bloody cold, let alone pretend to be happy to see them. 

He could handle brief stints outside when it was impossible to avoid them, but he shouldn't have to deal with the year's ridiculous weather patterns _indoors_ as well. 

Draco clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. The attempt to regain a modicum of dignity was successful in that it temporarily warded off the click-clack-click he'd been listening to for the last twenty minutes, but a spectacular failure in the only way that really counted. Instead of making him look collected, which was what he'd been going for, the tense muscles at the sides of his face made him look like he was ready to kill anyone who dared cross his path.

Or so he assumed by the frightened expression the witch sitting behind the desk gave him when he walked into the department. To top it off, the mousy-looking woman _squeaked_ and cowered back into her chair when he pried his jaw apart to greet her. 

_Brilliant._

_How was he supposed to charm the bint into finding room for him on her boss's suddenly very heavy schedule if she was picturing him as the nefarious Death Eater he had never really managed to become?_

He supposed he could use her impression of him to his advantage—scare the girl with threats to have her tortured or fired or whatever the hell would motivate her into giving him what he wanted. Merlin knew he wouldn't have thought twice about it before the war.

Unfortunately, it was very much a post-war era, and he needed to act beyond reproach at all times if he wanted to stay on the right side of all those bothersome people who would happily send him off to Azkaban if he showed even a hint of impropriety. At the _very_ least, they would sentence him to house arrest like they had done to his parents.

For the first time in days, the shiver that went through him wasn't entirely due to the frigid temperature of his current location. The prospect of being forced to share his frequently squabbling parents' company for any stretch of time beyond that of a meal was a dark, daunting thought that he would really rather not ever consider. 

“C-can I help you?” the witch stammered. Her eyes were comically wide—as if he had drawn his wand and couldn't wait to start cursing her with it.

He huffed to himself. _Please._ First of all, they were in a government building _full_ of potential witnesses. Anyone with a pinch of common sense wouldn't dare fire off borderline illegal magic there. 

And second, he wasn't his aunt. Bellatrix had been mad enough to fill one of St Mungo's wards for the mentally damaged all by her lonesome and a sadist to boot. He, however, was in full possession of his faculties—even if _constantly_ being regarded as a demon incarnate was slowly chipping away at them.

“ _Idiot!_ ”

Startled, Draco pulled up straight. _He knew that shrill, piercing scream._

Hermione Granger. There was no mistaking her loud, angry sneer of a voice when her temper got going.

“You _pathetic_ , incompetent _dullard_. It doesn't matter if you _personally_ believe in the old gods or not. It's your _job_ to perform the appropriate sacrifices on the list of dates you _should have_ been given when you took over for Gibbons, and the records say that was _ten years ago_.”

His eyes grew wide. _That_ was the reason the whole of wizarding Britain was freezing to death? Because some flea-brained paper-pusher from an obscure department in the Ministry hadn't been doing one of the _only_ tasks his job demanded of him?

He didn't even consider the possibility that Granger was mistaken. They had developed a truce of sorts after the war, and enough time had passed that he could admit that her mind was without equal. He never _liked_ to admit it, but there were times when the knowledge came in damn handy.

_Like **now** for instance._

“ _List?_ ” a male voice returned, sounding put out rather than fearful.

 _That would change_ , Draco thought wryly. All that was needed was for Granger's magic to start throwing sparks through her hair and the idiot would be stammering out an apology as fast as he possibly could.

“I never received any _list_. Nor, I assure you,” the man continued pompously, “was I _supposed_ to. The Ministry hasn't sanctioned sacrifices to _non-existent gods_ for a very long time now.”

 _Which was probably why said gods were so intent on making them all die slow, horrible deaths_ , Draco surmised. Come to think of it, the weather conditions had been getting progressively worse every year—regardless of which season it was. Perhaps one of the elemental deities had decided he had finally had enough. 

_Or **she**_. Vanishing all the warming charms people used indoors _did_ have a distinctly _vengeful female_ vibe about it.

Hermione snarled. The department head's grating, condescending speech came to an abrupt end, and the door separating the man's office from the rest of the department swung open hard enough to go past the doorstop and slam against the wall.

The secretary jerked in surprise—or in fear. Frankly, Draco didn't know and didn't care, as both were perfectly valid reactions to seeing a livid war heroine come charging out of a nearby room.

“Did I hear you right?” he asked to catch her attention. He knew he'd heard correctly, but while he could squeeze by with barely concealed irritation with anyone else, he _had_ to be polite to _her_. 

Being tortured by repeated castings of the Cruciatus curse hadn't killed her, nor had it driven her out of her mind like it had done to the few people _lucky_ enough to survive such an experience. It had done _something_ , though. She had always lived her life by what _she_ considered right and wrong, but after being tortured, she seemed even more morally ambiguous than she had already been. Where she might have settled for a scathing lecture or delivering a fist to the face to express her anger before... Well, most people who knew her, even in passing, were smart enough to stay the fuck out of her way when she was angry with them _now_.

The department head had shut up for a reason, after all, and Draco imagined that the wizard's hectic schedule would need to be scrapped until Granger's magic wore off and he regained his ability to speak.

“We're all going to die from _exposure_ because some Ministry lack-wit hasn't been doing what he's _supposed_ to do?”

She sniffed and strode over to him. “I don't even know why I thought he _might_ have been,” she said peevishly. “Since when has the Ministry _ever_ done anything it's supposed to do?”

“Off the top of my head? _Never_.”

“ _Exactly_.” She nodded. “It was supposed to get better, but I swear, its sole purpose seems to generate paperwork to get out of doing any _actual_ work.”

His teeth began to chatter again and he crossed his arms in a feeble attempt to retain the body heat that was quickly leaving him.

Hermione sighed, plunged her hand into the bag slung over her shoulder, and fished out a pair of the ugliest earmuffs he'd ever seen in his life. Hand-knit, they were covered with red and white stripes that made them look like peppermint sticks that had long passed their expiry date. Truce or not, he opened his mouth to comment—then snapped it closed again when she held the bloody things out to him.

She gave them a little shake when he didn't immediately reach for them. “Go on, Malfoy. You obviously need them more than I do. Besides, I can't wear them right now anyway, can I?” She motioned to her head with her free hand. Her hair was wild—as usual—and the curls were shot through with the tiny sparks of visible magic he'd been thinking of earlier. “Too agitated. I had to take them off before that pitiful excuse for a meeting or they would have caught on fire.”

“So you're saying you went into it _expecting_ it to go badly,” he commented with an amused twist of his lips.

“Of course. It's the Ministry.”

He chuckled, and when that caused him to start shivering uncontrollably, he finally took the earmuffs from her. They were hideous, and he would likely be ridiculed several times over if anyone he knew happened to see him, but if they actually worked and kept him from going numb all over, then the embarrassment was worth it. 

He didn't thank her, though. If he didn't _die_ , then he might consider it, but as it was, he couldn't bring himself to express gratitude over something so visually appalling. 

_They were warm_ , he thought in surprise as he slid them over his ears. Granger had always been the best in their Charms classes, but he hadn't realised that her magic was so good that even elemental gods didn't want to mess with it. 

“You mentioned a sacrifice?” he asked.

“An ox of three years if Stubblefield had done it on _time_. The belated ceremony is... more demanding.”

“You know what it is?”

“Yes. But you can save any know-it-all bookworm jokes you may have. Knowledge is power, Malfoy—and mine could be the only thing that keeps the British wizarding world alive to see the spring.”

He hadn't actually been about to tease her, but he doubted she would believe him if he told her as much, so he kept his mouth shut. 

She sighed again and her breath formed a cloud of steam when it hit the cold air. “If the Ministry really hasn't been holding up their end of things for all this time, then I'm not sure if _any_ of the rituals I'm familiar with will work. I'll have to do some research. Maybe I can mix a few of them together and hope for the best.”

“Let me know if you need any help,” he offered sincerely. The corners of his mouth twitched. “At the very least, I can provide you with a three year old ox.”

~*~

“What in Circe's name are you wearing?”

He stopped in his tracks. He'd only _just_ come home and his mother was right there, ready to assault him with a string of questions he may or may not be allowed to answer. 

“Earmuffs? Draco, you're hardly a child anymore.”

He parted his lips to tell her the damn things were all that were standing between him and hypothermia, but she ignored the nonverbal cue and continued on after waving her hand in a dismissive motion.

“Never mind. Did you speak to them? Did they tell you what's going on?”

“Don't get your hopes up, my dear,” Lucius told her. 

He hadn't been there a second ago, Draco was sure of it. He'd probably heard Mother's babbling and been drawn to the sound.

“Most Ministry employees wouldn't have a _clue_ what's going on if someone shouted it at them,” his father elaborated.

“Incidentally, that's exactly what happened,” Draco informed him, glad to have the opportunity to speak so soon after arriving at the manor. Usually he had to wait a while for his parents to stop talking before he could get a word in edgewise. “When I got to the Department of Weather—and what an inappropriate name that is, since they don't do much of _anything_.” He gave his head a quick shake. “Anyway, when I got there, Hermione Granger was already there, calling the head of the department an idiot.”

“She knows what's wrong, then?” his mother asked, astute as ever. 

“Naturally,” Lucius said.

Strangely, it didn't sound like he was being sarcastic. He knew his parents' views had changed a little since the war, but he hadn't thought the alteration so significant that his father would say _anything_ positive about a Muggleborn. 

_Granted, Granger wasn't just any Muggleborn, but still._

“Right. Well, apparently the Ministry hasn't been conducting the necessary sacrificial ceremonies to the old gods for a while now.”

His mother and father looked equal parts dumbstruck and horrified. Perhaps the shock had rendered them speechless.

He hoped that was all it was. If their uncharacteristic silence was solely due to their fright, then the situation was even worse than he'd originally thought.

~*~

The sight of her on his doorstep was an odd one. The wards should have kept anyone but family from even stepping foot on the property, but obviously they hadn't. He would have been concerned enough to demand answers if she'd been anyone else, but her body language was tense enough as it was, and he had no desire to spend the rest of his days suffering from whatever curse she decided to inflict on him if he said the wrong thing.

“I need help.” 

His mind _blinked_. 

_What?_

Jaw squared, hands clenched into fists at her sides—it was _killing_ her to have to ask for help. He would have grinned had the circumstances not been as dire as they were, but they _were_ , so he curtly nodded instead.

“You said to tell you if I needed help,” Hermione hastily reminded him before he could say a word.

He wasn't confident he could have anyway. He hadn't been able to speak in complete sentences for almost two days now; all that came out were truncated thoughts broken up by the loud chattering of his teeth and the strong desire to keep any warmth he had left _inside_ him.

“Well, I need help,” she said bluntly. “I found an apology ceremony that should suffice—which was a _miracle_ , really. The Restricted Section at Hogwarts just _hasn't_ been properly maintained since Madam Pince retired.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Maybe that was how she stayed moderately warm when everyone else who wasn't parked in front of a roaring fire was _freezing_. He wasn't sure how much energy one could generate from constantly speaking in a stream of thought sort of way, but it might be worth giving it a shot if her sacrificial idea didn't work out. 

It probably would, though— _and thank Merlin for that_. Whether it could produce body heat or not, Draco was pretty sure if he employed Granger's tactics, he would end up in Azkaban within an hour for any number of things. 

“ _Anyway_ , it requires blood from both a witch and a wizard—willingly offered, if you were going to ask why I'm here talking to you instead of one of my friends. Ron thinks my _theory_ , as he put it, is _rubbish_ , so he would have to be threatened or otherwise coerced and obviously that would negate the _willing_ aspect.”

“Pot-Potter?” Draco managed. He ignored the cold-induced stutter and he was pleased to see that Hermione did, too. 

“Harry has a bit of a hang-up about the sight of blood; has ever since...” She trailed off but made a vague flapping motion with her hand in lieu of words. 

Lucky for her, he was swifter on the uptake than most of the people she knew.

 _Unlucky_ for _him_ , that meant he knew _exactly_ what incident she was referring to. 

He still had the occasional nightmare about it. 

_So seeing him dying on the lavatory floor had given St Potter a fear of the sight of blood, had it? Good._

The pretentious prick deserved so much more, but Draco would take what little restitution he could get since Potter wasn't going to be held responsible for _any_ of his misdeeds anytime soon.

“I suppose I should feel guilty about asking you to participate in this after bringing up bad memories,” Granger continued after a thoughtful pause, “but honestly, I just want to get this over with. I can't remember ever feeling this cold, and the longer we put it off, the worse it's going to get.”

Her not-quite apology should have made him bristle, but as it happened, he agreed with her. He nodded briskly, sealing the accord.

The sooner they appeased the old, moody gods, the better.

~*~

The damn ceremony had to be done outside. _Of **course** it did._ It might be frigid as hell indoors, but at least there wasn't _wind_ to contend with there.

He supposed it could be worse, though. She could have demanded they find a place on the grounds that was far away from the manor, somewhere that _wouldn't_ be shielded from the wind when it whipped around toward the north. 

As it was, they were in the flower garden. Not on the walking path, but on the frozen soil. He hoped they weren't standing on anything important—his mother would have his head when the spring came around. 

_**If** the spring came around._

_Right._

Hermione stripped off her gloves. He assumed it was because some element of the ritual needed delicate handling, so he didn't pay the action much mind other than to think that he was glad it was her and not him. 

But then she began to untie her boots—and a tiny ball of panic crawled up into his throat. 

“What—” Clack-click-clack. _Gods, that was getting old._ He was going to lose his teeth early at this rate. “—doing?”

“Nothing between our skin and the ground.” She gave him a pointed look before she turned her attention back to her feet to remove her _socks_. “Hurry up, would you? Time isn't on our side, if you'll recall.”

He scowled for a long second and then grudgingly followed her directions. _This had better bloody work_ , he thought. _Because if it didn't..._

_Then they would both likely die out there and it wouldn't matter._

_Happy, **happy** thoughts. _

“Good,” Hermione said approvingly. “Now give me your hand.”

He'd had to take off his nice, warm gloves to take off his nice, warm socks and shoes, so his bare skin touched hers when he obeyed her brusque command. Her fingers felt like _fire_ and he nearly jerked back in surprise. She tightened her grip, as if she'd expected him to pull away, and then her hand came into view—clutching a very sharp obsidian knife. 

_Oh. Right. The blood._

He flinched in expectation of the pain, but the cold finally proved good for something. He barely felt the blade pierce his skin or drag across his palm. He doubted he would have known it had happened if he didn't see blood well up from the slash on his hand.

Granger did the same to her hand without flinching at all. And then she clasped his bleeding appendage with hers and he nearly passed out. Whatever preparations she'd done for the ritual had made the magic inside of her thrum hard enough for _him_ to feel it. 

At least, he hoped that was what was going on, because if she carried this much power inside all the time, then he owed her a _lot_ more than the _one_ feeble apology he'd offered up after the war. 

Their blood mixed together and dropped to the ground in a crimson splash. Hermione started chanting. Draco didn't recognise the spell. He didn't even recognise the language the spell was in. But whatever Granger was doing pushed her magic _through_ him and he felt warm for the first time in weeks. 

Enough blood left him that he was dizzy by the time the ritual had reached its climax, and he only straightened from his increasingly slumped and wobbly position because Hermione _shouted_ the last words of the spell.

The world seemed to stop for a beat. Then another. And _then_ , the bone-chilling cold that had threatened to destroy them all began to lift. In the space of less than five minutes, the temperature had easily gone up a good ten degrees. It still had a long way to go before he would feel comfortable standing outside in bare feet, but it was clear the ritual had _worked_. 

He giggled, giddy with relief. He tugged on their still connected hands and pulled her to him. She stumbled, wide-eyed, and he smiled brightly before leaning down to kiss her. She was too surprised to reciprocate right away, but he didn't care. Because of her, they were no longer just waiting around to die. He wouldn't be a popsicle come Christmas. The season of good cheer would be followed by another. 

He could wait for it. 

And her.

~end~


End file.
